


GxS

by Yeonni



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Call of Duty - Modern Warfare 2
Genre: Destructive Behavior, Emotionally Repressed, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inspired by Doujinshi, M/M, Manly Feels, Morally Ambiguous Character, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11957817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeonni/pseuds/Yeonni
Summary: Soap isn't himself after being rescued from the enemy and Ghost doesn't want to get involved. His integrity, emotional and otherwise, is at risk, not in the least because he knows his actions would have ulterior motives. Soap won't let him stay out, however, in his flailing attempts at steadying the ship, and Ghost finds himself tangled in something that can only head down down down.





	GxS

**Author's Note:**

> This story builds on the 2-part doujinshi “Defective Dogs”, drawn by Osora and written and translated by Tinmeshi and Killstreak (credits 07nana for helping me find the names). The Prologue is more or less a paraphrased Part 1, and the rest is kind of my modified and expanded version of Part 2, and also tying into the game later. As the Doujinshi, the exact time and place is unspecified, and while I tried to stick to game canon where applicable, I wrote this years after I played the game. I know little of actual military procedure and any and all things like that, so I ask any reader to overlook artistic freedoms I've no doubt taken; feel free to tell me what I've done wrong too for later reference :P

Prologue – The rescue of Soap

 

The second half of the plane ride took place in silence. After the initial celebration, the shoulder slaps and “Good to see you, MacTavish!”, everyone sat back and sank into their own thoughts. Grins relaxed into expressions of relief, not only for a mission success and a friend recovered but also the simple joy of surviving to see another day. Some rested, some slept despite the noisy plane. The man of the hour, Soap, watched the land and the clouds rush by under them. Ghost, comfortably hidden at the far back, after that initial loaded handshake not having taken part of the shoulder slapping, watched him stare out the window. It was the same plane as they had come in, but it felt completely different leaving. That was what Soap did, Ghost thought. He changed the feeling of any room, any place he went. His presence alone gave men confidence, lent a sense of safety and accomplishment, past and future. Without him, the team would have fallen apart. That was why they'd risked everything to go get him.

Right?

 

More people met them soon as the plane set down. More handshakes and shoulder slaps, more grins and exclamations. Soap was whisked away, only turning around to throw a quick “Thank you” in Ghost's direction. Ghost stood still as they walked away. Immobile, while they laughed and gestured.

They were well away from him, far enough to not hear or see, when Ghost's fist hit the lockers. “Thank you”.

 

Soap stared at his commander trying to process. “You didn't give the order?” he said again.

“I'm no less glad to have you back, MacTavish, but you know the truth is it was far too risky to go in after you. By all estimates you may very well already be dead by the time we got there. No, it was Ghost, who gathered up a team and called in favors, or so I am told. I will have to give him a reprimand, but considering how well it went, no more than that.”

Soap was still processing. Ghost?

“You're a lucky bastard. Your men like you.”

They did. He was. But Ghost? Mysterious, distant, chilly Ghost, calling in personal favors for him? Calm and calculating Ghost, dragging teammates into a mission that would succeed on a wish and a prayer at best?

 

 

 

Part Zero – A man in the room

 

The guys told him the story, all of them together, probably exaggerating some parts but overall painting a picture. A small team, an enemy base, planning and executing and getting lucky, and eventually making their way to his cell. All of it on Ghost, they said unanimously. Then Ghost came, second in command and still used to barking out the orders since Soap had been gone a while, and put them back on target practice.

“How are you holding up,” he asked.

“I'm fine,” Soap said, picking up his gun. One, two, three – in the center. An image flashed by his mind, a handprint against his skin burned. Four – off target. He could feel the others watching him as he took off his glasses and ear protection.

“You still got it, boss,” one of them said.

Ghost said nothing, just watched him leave.

 

He woke with a start. There was someone in the room, standing over his bed. He sat up and stared into the darkness, heart beating hard against his chest. Most of him knew there was no one there, but some critical part still reached out and turned on the light. The room was empty. He swallowed, as if he could physically push the feeling down into his stomach to be dissolved and digested, and lay down again. Soon as he closed his eyes he could feel him again, the man in the room. Like a presence so strong it made waves in the air.

This was the third night he wasn't going to get any sleep. He was keeping up appearances, but without sleep he would only last so long. He got up and pulled on a shirt and left his room. His feet took him to the rec room down the hall. The light was still on, despite being way past bedtime. When he entered, Ghost put on his shades and looked up from his papers. He was wearing his skull mask. Almost always was. And if not that, then cap and glasses, or hood. It creeped the other guys out. Some told stories that his face was disfigured, or he had some skin disease, or his eyes were sick and would get ruined from sharp light. Some of the younger guys liked to call him a vampire. And he did like to be up at night, Soap thought, and gave himself half a smile.

“What are you still doing up,” Soap asked.

“Paperwork,” Ghost said, tapping the papers with his pen. “What's your excuse?”

“I got thirsty,” Soap said, heading for the vending machine. Staring at the selection his mind blanked out. He didn't know why he'd lied.

“Catch.”

He saw something fly at him and caught it instinctively. A coin. He didn't have any money, his pajama pants didn't even have pockets. He stuck it in the machine and got a drink in return. With it in hand he shuffled over to Ghost and sat down opposite him in the couch.

“Need any help with that?”

Ghost sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, flicking the pen back and forth. He hated reports. “No,” he said.

He took another drink and swung his legs up on the couch. “I didn't thank you properly,” he said. “They told me you were the one who got them shuffling.”

“I gave up on you,” Ghost said. He spoke like he was reciting facts. “Figured you were dead. Then we got a piece of intel, shabby, uncertain, but it said you were alive. Big guys said you'd be dead before we got there anyway. But if there was even a chance... I figure you would have done the same for me.”

Would he? Soap wondered, chewing on the edge of the soda can.

Ghost played with his pen. “You did thank me.”

“What?”

“You did thank me.”

Soap shook his head. “I owe you one.”

“You don't owe me shit.”

“You saved my life, man, and...”

“You don't owe me shit.” Anger. Soap hurried to drop it.

“I'll keep you company while you finish that,” he said, settling deeper into the couch and putting the drink away.

 

Ghost listened to the silence as he'd put down the last period in his report. He hated writing. Hated having to go through and put in writing every action and decision, it made him feel naked. Years in the army had familiarized him with the process, but not made it any less unpleasant. He liked being a shadow, whether that meant the shadow in the night that killed you, or the shadow at the back of a room that nobody cared about. Writing those reports was like the chastity ball queen unbuttoning her blouse in front of a crowed of strangers. Uncanny and unnatural.

He looked over the table and found Soap sound asleep.

He took his time gathering up the papers and getting them in order, reading through sections again to make sure they were right. Then he woke Soap up. Prodded his shoulder, said his name, eventually had to resort to shaking him. Then his eyes opened and he bounced away, a flash of fear in his face, then recognition, then confusion.

“You fell asleep on the couch,” Ghost said.

“Right,” Soap said.

It felt like “go to bed” was something you said to children. Ghost scratched his cheek. He needed to shave; the mask got fairly uncomfortable with the slightest hint of stubble. “I'm going to bed,” he settled for saying.

“Right,” Soap said, seemingly not quite awake.

They were used to being called into action straight from sleep. He must have been tired. Maybe hadn't slept since he came back. Ghost hovered, partly regretting waking him up, partly wanting to leave before it got awkward. “Good night,” he said eventually, as Soap just sat there, and left.

 

Soap went back and closed the door behind him, and immediately it was as though the emptiness gave space to the man in the room. He sat down on his bed and waited for dawn.

 

 

 

01 – The Sound of Silence

 

It was late autumn, and the summer heat had given way. Combat gear was becoming bearable to wear, Soap thought, huffing to himself and getting to his feet, brushing a few brown leaves off his shoulder. Two of his men were scattered through the obstacle course, a few others were hanging by the sidelines waiting for their turn, a trio of men who had already finished sat splayed on a bench.

“You shouldn't be here,” Ghost said, handing him the clipboard.

“I'm not running the course,” Soap said to appease him. “Just testing my leg a little.” It was fine for walking, but not much more. Crawling through the fence had been enough to convince him he needed another week, or two. He accepted the clipboard and Ghost rolled his shoulders and walked over to the starting line. The signal beeped and his heavy boots ruffled up the leaves as he ran.

Day four, Soap thought to himself. He'd gotten an hour or two of sleep last night while Ghost worked, and felt better than in a long time. Maybe everything would be okay.

 

Late night. Some guys were spread in the rec room when Soap got there. Another team was passing through on their way to deployment, and took the chance to relax and socialize. The room was fairly loud. Soap knew Ghost wouldn't be there the moment he stepped inside.

“Anyone seen Ghost?” he asked basically out into the air, but a nearby guy from the other team pointed his thumb at the stairs.

“Smoking,” he said.

“He doesn't smoke,” Soap said, wondering if the guy didn't know who he meant, however anyone could stay at their base and not know Ghost.

“He does now,” the guy said.

A local arrived with drinks. “He started the day you didn't report in,” he said.

Soap walked away.

 

Ghost turned the volume in his headphones up another notch. They were already too loud, would give him a headache. Had to block out the terrible taste of the cigarette somehow. He sat on the balcony, back against the wall, legs straight out in front of him, and slowly let the smoke out, let it rise into the sky.

He'd done the right thing, going in for Soap.

But somehow it felt like he'd passed a threshold and he couldn't go back. He'd scratched that itch he'd walked around with forever, almost forgotten it was there, and suddenly it itched like never before.

He wished the cigarette was something stronger.

“You pray it'll go away but it never will,” the song went blasting in his ears, and he tore the headphones off, and his abused ears managed to pick up the sound of a heavy boot setting down carefully next to him. He turned his head and saw Soap, and for a split second he was about to get up and push Soap against the railing and... Then he hid the cigarette out of sight and pulled up the mask back into place.

Soap sat down, nearby but not too close.

“What are you doing up here,” Soap asked.

Why had he hid the cigarette? He tapped his fingers holding the cigarette against the cement floor and said nothing. Maybe Soap would go away.

“A bit noisy down there.”

He wished Soap would go away.

 

“I hear you didn't take the offer on counseling,” Ghost said.

“It's not the first time I take a beating, I can handle it,” Soap said.

Ghost watched him. Too closely. Soap had to struggle not to squirm. It had always been that way, Ghost made everyone squirm. He was a bit of a lone wolf still despite being a true and valued team member; the men knew he was good, maybe too good. He could creep up on the best spotters, get into places no one else could, and there was always some trick up his sleeve to get guys much bigger than him whining on the ground. And once his mind was set on it, he didn't flinch in the face of brutality, including exacting horrible vengeance on those he thought had slighted him. But most of all, maybe it was the mask and shades. A lot of guys asked questions, Soap never had. Ghost must have a damned good reason to go through all that trouble. They'd been working together for a while now, on quite a few missions, and the closest Soap had been to seeing his face was Ghost in full camo paint and camo cap that shaded his eyes. Long as the guy did his job as well has he did, Soap didn't care if he wore a clown nose.

But suddenly he wondered what color his eyes were. He remembered wondering that in the beginning, just after meeting him, but since then he'd gotten used to it and forgotten about it. The shades were light but tinted blue. Would that make blue eyes bluer, or obscure the color? He imagined Ghost red-haired and green-eyed for some reason. He was probably wrong.

“What did you say?” he asked, realizing Ghost had said something.

“It wasn't just a beating, though,” Ghost said.

He forced himself to keep breathing normally. “You got there just in time,” he said. Couldn't stop the light blush coming to his cheeks at the thought of Ghost standing there in the cell door, throwing a coat over him before the others came in so they wouldn't see that his pants were pulled down.

Ghost kept watching him as he said, “that time.”

He couldn't know. He couldn't. Soap stuck out his chin. “Give me one.”

“What?”

“A smoke.”

“I don't...” Ghost shook his head, at himself maybe, and took his left hand out from behind his back and waved the cigarette. “I don't have any more.”

“Then give me that one.”

Ghost watched him quietly. He felt he was being watched a lot lately, not only by Ghost, but it was different with him. The others were glad to see him, maybe a little concerned. Ghost was something else, he could tell even behind those shades. Still not saying anything, Ghost handed him the cigarette.

 

Soap stuck the cigarette in his mouth like he knew he was going to keep it. That was just the way he was, imposing on others, going where he couldn't know he was welcome, taking without concern for owing or offending. Ghost should loathe him. He picked up his headphones and turned down the volume a bit and put them back on. Soap smoked the rest of the cigarette while Ghost listened to the end of the playlist. The sun set slowly behind the mountains.

Eventually the area settled down into the night. The air was getting quite cold. Ghost's playlist ended and he was roused by the sudden silence. He got up, surprised to find Soap still there.

Soap was asleep, head resting in the corner where the railing attached to the wall. It looked uncomfortable. The cigarette butt was left forgotten next to his hand. Ghost left, returned with two jackets, put on one and threw the other carelessly over Soap. He reset the playlist, set himself down by the wall, and closed his eyes.

 

Soap woke up by some rustling. When he opened his eyes dawn was breaking. He just caught sight of Ghost leaving.

 

 

 

02 – Defiance

 

Soap picked up a lunch tray and looked around, spotting the back of Ghost's head and his headphones in a corner. He was halfway there when Roach seemed to appear out of nowhere, sliding in next to Ghost as naturally as if they were best friends. Soap watched him talk to Ghost, get one-word answers, taking the headphones and listening to them, smiling and handing them back. Normally he'd sit down with them, tell Roach to lay off but join him in teasing Ghost. As the only two people not intimidated by Ghost's mysterious person, they often joined forces in pestering him. Now he felt like he would intrude.

 

A while ago.

“My brother sent me these,” Roach said, scooting closer to Soap and leaning in. Soap humored him and leaned in as well. Next to him, Ghost threw a disinterested glance their way as Roach handed him the cards.

It was a regular deck of cards, insofar as that it had all the classical suits and numbers, but each card featured a mostly naked woman, one position more compromising than the next. It was the kind of thing Soap used to steal from his uncle and giggle over together with the neighborhood boys.

“It's pretty stupid, but hell, you take what you get,” he said.

“Yeah I know, it's just a joke, but still,” Roach said, laughing. He flipped through a few and pointed out the one he liked most. “Hey Ghost, what do you think?”

Ghost shrugged, not even turning around to look.

Soap's eyes met with Roach, and he turned around and took Ghost's headphones off. “Come on, have a glance,” he said.

Ghost looked down at the cards scattered across Soap's lap, before he found the headphones in Soap's hand and tried to take them back. Soap held them away. “We all knew the kid hasn't hit puberty yet,” Ghost said, nodding towards Roach, “but you got a deep voice for a twelve-year-old.”

“Look, this place isn't exactly crowding with eye candy, is it,” Soap said, feeling a little stupid but stuck with it now.

“What's the matter, you can't see right with those on?” Roach said, and jumped up and tried to take Ghost's shades off him.

Soap wasn't sure he even got to touch the frames. Ghost tripped him so fast, Soap never saw how. Then he got up and left, leaving the headphones with them.

“Aw come on man,” Roach called after him.

Ghost flipped them off over his shoulder. Which meant they were okay. Over time, Soap had learned that it was when he was still and quiet that people should start to worry.

 

He sat down at the next table over.

“I was considering signing up,” Roach said.

“Why not,” Ghost said with a shrug.

“You think I could do it?”

“It's a simple mission.”

“Then why are you signing up?”

“Need some air.”

“Two weeks of air?” Roach blew some air, and Ghost pulled his drink out of the way. “You must really feel cramped up here.”

“I do.”

“And just after you got Soap back here? You don't want to hang around?”

“You stay here and babysit him then.”

“Geez, you're even stingier than normal. But this is sort of a stealth thing, it's not really my strength.”

“It's easy. And you'll have me.”

“Yeah exactly. I'll be trying to keep up with an invisible person.”

Ghost hummed, no doubt a little flattered. Soap got up.

 

Ghost sensed him coming just ahead of time, but Roach did not. When Soap slammed his hands down on the table, Roach must have jumped two feet.

“Since when do you sign up for missions without my permission?” Soap demanded. He wasn't quite shouting, didn't want to make a scene.

“Captain!” Roach said, who knew where he wanted to get with that.

“You're not officially reinstated yet,” Ghost said calmly.

“But you know I'm here.”

“Sorry,” Roach said.

“While we're without orders, there's no need for formalities,” Ghost continued. “We don't really need your permission to pick up low-risk missions.”

“How about common curtesy,” Soap demanded.

“I'm sorry, are we having a tea party?” Ghost said. “I thought this was the army. Sir.”

Soap slammed his hands down on the table again, harder this time, hard enough that the rest of the room perked up.

Ghost got up, picked up his tray and left.

 

“I'm sorry, boss,” Roach said. “I would have checked with you.”

“Don't call me boss,” Soap said.

 

Soap was kept busy with some physiotherapist that Doc had called in, poking and prodding his leg, giving him exercises and letting him try them. Ghost didn't show up for dinner. Evening came, he lay on his bed, turning this way and that. For a brief moment he slept, but the man was there immediately, hovering over his bed, he could feel his breaths. He felt like he couldn't breathe himself. He got up, and then he was standing in front of Ghost's room, finger curled for a knock but stopped with the knuckle half an inch from the metal. This was not the right choice. Maybe he was insane to think he could handle this, maybe he should try that counseling after all...

Ghost opened the door.

 

 

 

03 – Confessions

 

“... Soap,” Ghost said, when Soap said nothing.

“Can I come in?”

“I was just...”

Soap pushed past him and went inside. The base had plenty space, and when they'd been asked if any men wanted solo rooms, Soap had volunteered Ghost, who appreciated it. He could deal with having people around all the time, sometimes that was unavoidable in the field, but he did enjoy being left alone, and especially having a place he knew he could go when he wanted to be. Since the day Ghost had taken possession, not a single other person had been in that room. Until now.

“What do you want,” Ghost said, a little annoyed at the intrusion.

“Let me sleep in here.”

“No.”

Soap paused. He hadn't been prepared for refusal, that much was clear. “Come on,” he said. “It's a big room and I can sleep in the other...” He looked over to where the other bed should be. There was a tiny bathroom instead. The rest of the room was barren. Ghost didn't have many possessions, and the few he had fit in the pockets of his combat gear, so he had nothing to fill the space with. The setback made Soap pause for a second time. “I can sleep on the floor,” he said then.

“No,” Ghost said.

“Why? I know you'll have to sleep in the mask, but, I'll be out of your hair in the morning, and...”

“This isn't a discussion...”

“Just a few nights, Ghost. Just tonight. I can't sleep.”

Ghost said nothing.

 

“I can't sleep. I have nightmares. Except when you're there. In the rec room, and on the balcony. You stayed with me on the balcony,” Ghost shook his head, “so what's the difference? You know I'd never touch your stuff or try to see your face.”

“You can't,” Ghost said.

But he did say something. If it was totally out of the question, he wouldn't say anything at all. He'd probably just leave. Soap took a deep breath and kicked off his shoes, that he'd only stepped into, and crawled into Ghost's bed and burrowed into the pillow and stayed there. Ghost still didn't leave. “The bed's big enough for both of us,” Soap said.

“Are you serious,” Ghost said.

“We're both wearing clothes,” Soap said, and immediately bit himself in the lip. Shit, why had he said that.

 

While Roach gathered up the cards, Soap went to find Ghost. Even if it was just good-natured fun, he'd better make sure Ghost wasn't making plans to put spikes in Roach's shoes while he slept. As much as Ghost could be a fun guy – no really, if he really wanted to he could – he could react quite violently to the odd random thing. Other guys yelled and punched, Ghost watched quietly and poured acid in your morning coffee.

Ghost was outside on the back porch, leaned against the railing watching some of the guys fool around on the practice field, kicking around a ball and trying to jump up to standing from lying on their backs.

“Don't mind Roach, he's just fooling around,” Soap said.

“Whatever,” Ghost said.

They watched for a while. The guys were failing the flips. “There's no prospective Mrs. Ghost back home, wherever that is?” Soap asked.

“As if there's any prospect of anything for us,” Ghost said.

Soap resented that. He wasn't going to die here. He was willing to give his life for his country same as any other guy on this base, and he'd die to protect his men. But none of those would be required. He was going home. He had prospects. Although he wasn't sure what those prospects were.

“Listen,” Ghost said, and turned around so he rested his elbows on the railing. “There's something I have to tell you.”

Soap mirrored his move. “Okay?”

“I'm not really... interested, in that kind of shit.”

“Never took you for a prude,” Soap said.

Ghost snorted. “I don't mean porn, you twit. Like that as much as the next guy. I mean...”

Don't say it, Soap thought.

“Women,” Ghost said, and a few seconds passed before he lifted his head and looked over at Soap.

 

“If you just need company, ask for a double room,” Ghost said. He watched Soap's back, Soap still burying his face in the pillow. His jaw had clenched. Before it'd have been water off a duck, but now he couldn't let it slide. The itch had been scratched, the poison had spread, and now he couldn't stop. God knew where they'd end up. “Why does it have to be me?” Ghost asked, waiting to see what kind of bullshit Soap would come up with.

Soap took his time. “Because you know,” he said.

“Know what?”

“What really happened to me over there.”

Well. Turned out Soap could think on his feet pretty well. “Bullshit.”

“Ghost.” Soap rolled over and sat up. “Don't take that mission.” He refused to answer that. “I'm not ordering you. I know you can go if you want to, but... please. I won't be able to sleep for weeks.”

“This isn't my job,” Ghost said.

“We're friends, aren't we,” Soap said. “I'm asking as your friend, please don't...”

“Are we.”

 

Soap turned back around and watched the guys on the field trying to do chain leapfrogging in as stupid ways as possible. Suddenly he wasn't sure why Ghost had chosen that spot, why he was watching these guys play around. He tried to make out who was over there but they were too far away and wore the same things as every other guy. He turned his head, and although he only saw a hint of Ghost's eyes through the shades, he felt them burn into him like fire. Suddenly he wasn't sure about anything, except that he had to get off this porch.

He pushed away from the railing and left.

“Soap!” Ghost called after him. “Oy, come on.”

He kept walking.

“You got nothing to say? Fine. Don't tell anyone, alright?”

The tone of his voice made him sick. All friendly and vulnerable. Trusting. He glanced over his shoulder and Ghost had left the railing too, but stood still. Waiting for an answer.

Soap walked away. Ghost called after him once more, but that was it.

 

“Please,” Soap said.

“I don't owe you any favors,” Ghost said.

“So you brought me home, but you'll let me burn here?”

“Fine.” Ghost pushed him aside and lay down in the bed. “Sleep here, one night. Tomorrow I'm signing up.”

Soap didn't know what more to say. He lay down on his back, Ghost turned away from him facing the wall. He thought he'd think of something, but soon enough he was asleep.

 

 

 

03 – Acts of Love and Acts of Violence

 

When he woke up, Ghost was gone. Later on he met him in the hall, Roach hanging off his shoulder talking about how cool it would be to go on a mission just the two of them. Something at the bottom of his stomach burned like acid, burned like only one other thing had, except further down. He went in the bathroom and threw up, wiped his mouth, went back to business. He felt like he was suffocating.

 

Evening came. Ghost had barely seen Soap all day. He hadn't shown for work out, target practice, or lunch. After signing up for the mission together, Roach was glued to his side, and had spent all day looking around for Soap.

Dragging Roach along all day made him tired. When Roach finally went to bed, Ghost wandered. Haunted the halls, listening to music. He ended up on a bench by the door to the balcony, stretched his crossed legs out in front of him, dug his hands deep into his sweater pockets, and let the beat thump through his veins. Tomorrow they shipped out. Two weeks of intel gathering behind enemy lines; low risk but demanding. Two weeks of constant concentration, to wipe his mind and reset. He focused on blowing his breaths slowly out through the thin fabric of the mask, to block out the little voice that wondered if that was what he really wanted. He wasn't the kind of guy to waste time on the impossible. It was just a little harder to get moving this time.

The base was dead this late. They were far away from any active zones. There were a few guys in the perimeter towers, a guard here and there but most of them half dozed off. He enjoyed the silence on the other side of the headphones; it was like being in a bubble of electric guitars and roaring voices. Then the vibrations of several sets of boots in the stairs. He burrowed deeper into his seat and waited for the little group to pass. They didn't. They stopped and turned back and spoke to him. They seemed a little drunk, rowdy, but still too quiet to be heard through the music. Something was not right. Ghost could only see their lower bodies without lifting his head, but the body language he saw worried him. He took his hands out of his pockets. Someone tore the headphones off his head.

“... think you're something! Let's see that pretty face of yours then!”

Shit.

 

Soap heard a bit of commotion, but waited a while. When it didn't die down, he went up the stairs and found Ghost on the ground, struggling quietly, a group of three guys pounding him less quietly. A hard blow landed audibly, Ghost let out a breath of pain and rolled over, holding his arm, protecting it with his body. For some reason not raising his voice, shouting or screaming. Soap screamed for him.

“What the fuck. Do you think. You're doing! Get the fuck out of here!”

The guys threw him a glance, they wore scarves over their faces, standard military clothes and caps, could be anyone. Then they ran, pushed past him down the stairs, shoved him hard against the wall. He smelled alcohol on them.

 

Ghost pulled himself backwards until he felt the wall behind his back, eyes firmly shut. Took a moment to breathe. He knew he was safe. He'd know that voice anywhere. He heard boots coming closer, someone crouching down, then something prodded his face. He shoved the hand away.

“It's me,” Soap said, as if he wouldn't know that. “Your glasses.”

He tried to take them from Soap, but Soap insisted on putting them back on his head himself. When he opened his eyes, Soap was looking at his right arm worriedly. He looked himself and didn't like what he saw. It was already swelling up.

 

Soap extended a hand. “Let's get to the nurse.”

 

Soap closed the door to Ghost's room behind them. Further into the room, Ghost unzipped his sweater, then looked down at his bandaged arm and kicked the bed. Once, hard. Then sat down and started unlacing his boots. He hadn't said a word the whole time.

“I'll help you,” Soap said, bending down by his feet.

He couldn't tell what Ghost's look was trying to say. Once the boots were off, Ghost tried to lie down, but Soap pulled him back up and helped him out of the sweater. Slowly, carefully, because he could tell his arm hurt quite a lot. Then let him crawl into bed, ushered him further in and lay down next to him.

 

The arm wasn't broken, the nurse had told Ghost, but he was in no shape for a mission. It would hurt for a while, he should rest it for at least a week. Any strenous activity and he risked worsening the injury. As if he'd go on a mission anyway, with his whole body bruised and aching. The painkillers hadn't kicked in yet, and the adrenaline was gone. He felt a little light headed. Pain usually sharpened his perception, but by now it had dulled into a murmuring ache that only made him foggy.

Next to him, Soap fidgeted. “Ghost?”

He rolled over, turning his back, but immediately had to change his mind. Couldn't lie on his right side.

 

Ghost made some sound of pain, and Soap sat up. Back to flat on his back, Ghost looked up at him tiredly.

“I'm sorry,” Soap said. Originally he'd meant to say it because Ghost had to sleep in his mask and it had to be tiresome, but when the words came out they were about more. Bigger. He was sorry for so many things, old and new. Even the rescue, in a way, sorry for putting Ghost through the danger, sorry that he'd had to see what he'd seen. He suddenly wondered if Ghost saw him differently now. He certainly would see him differently if he knew everything. But Ghost had always looked at him a little different, hadn't he. Soap had never allowed himself to think about it, but he knew.

Ghost slowly turned his head away like looking at him hurt.

Maybe it did?

Before he knew what he was doing, he'd bent down and pressed his lips over Ghost's through the mask.

 

Ghost shoved Soap away, cursing inwardly but unable to press out the words. The pain made his head spin. Not only the arm. He knew Soap didn't respect it, didn't respect this aspect of him, but they were mates, they had each other's backs. There were boundaries he thought Soap would respect, even if he didn't respect Ghost. Just like Ghost had to respect the line.

That day on the porch, watching the guys somersault, telling Soap something he never told anyone, not because it was a secret but because it was none of their business... it had been bad. But he knew how to take it. Soap had drawn a line; this is as far as it goes. We're soldiers, we're brothers, but we're not friends. And Ghost could deal with that. Could deal with it despite the reasons for telling him in the first place. But this.

“Get out of my room, McTavish,” he said. Felt anger bubble up at how his own voice could sound so shaky.

Soap grabbed his shoulder. “I just,” he said. Probably wasn't going to say more even if Ghost hadn't interrupted.

“Get the fuck out.” If his arm hadn't been hurt he'd have punched Soap then and there.

There was something wild and wounded in Soap's eyes that made him worry. Not for himself, but for Soap.

 

The grip on Ghost's shoulder felt good. Firm. He was tired of being the victim. The guy other people rescued, the guy who needed other people to hold him together. He pushed Ghost back down into the bed, and it felt good. Sat on top of him and rested there, let him feel his weight, let his hand rest on Ghost's right arm as a warning. Move and it's going to hurt. Who was the victim now, and who was the man in the room.

 

Soap looked half mad, like a wounded animal. There were seventeen ways Ghost thought he could get out of this position; thirteen of those the army had taught him. But Soap was good. Counting the injury, and Soap's mad look, he couldn't swear he'd succeed. Couldn't swear Soap wouldn't seriously injure him, if he tried. So while he stayed calm, stayed still, and told himself he'd figure this out, his heart beat a little faster.

Soap shifted over and their hips grind together.

 

He felt Ghost's reaction under him. Suddenly it was so real, so sharp and bright despite the darkness. He shoved a hand under Ghost's shirt, pushed it up as far as he could. Bruises were still forming on Ghost's torso, darker blots disturbing the smooth expanse of skin. Ghost arched up a little under him, either a weak attempt at wriggling free or reacting to the touch, he didn't know. Didn't care. He kept going, playing with the reactions, enjoying being in command. Ghost watched him. His eyes were gray in the darkness, Soap couldn't tell the color.

He bent forward, letting his body connect with Ghost's all the way down, felt Ghost's chest rise and fall under his, set his lips against his ear and whispered, “What color are your eyes?”

Ghost shoved at him. “Go to hell, McTavish.”

He lifted his head and looked into Ghost's eyes from very close, their noses almost touching.

“Soap,” said Ghost, more like breathed it , and it sounded deliciously intimate. “Don't.”

“I'll turn on the light.”

Ghost watched him warily. Waiting for a continuation, since Soap made no effort to reach for the light.

 

“Let me do it,” Soap said.

“Do what,” said Ghost, although he knew. Wanted it. Didn't want it. Wherever Soap's mind had gone, he wanted to help him out of there, and at the same time some deep dark part of himself wondered what he could get out of this. Victims of these types of abuse were likely to repeat the behavior, either as victims or perpetrators. Where was Soap going? Ghost's bruised chest was aching under Soap's weight, Soap's belt buckle was crushing into his hip. The pain seemed only appropriate.

Soap sat back up and unbuckled.

Pride, and instinct, won over desire. Ghost hurled himself off the mattess, planted his shoulder in Soap's chest and tipped him backwards, but he felt already before the impact that he hadn't gotten enough momentum. Soap easily regained balance and caught him before he got out of the bed. Red-hot iron exploded inside his arm as Soap twisted it back, grabbed his neck and shoved him face first into the pillow, concealing the groan of pain that escaped him.

“I know you can deal with pain,” Soap said. “But the nurse said your arm will get injured worse if you strain it.” He twisted the arm further up on Ghost's back. “So don't.”

When Soap pushed Ghost's thighs apart with his knees, he decided to give up. What was he fighting for? Pride? He'd never had any, not with Soap. Not since that calm, sunny day on the porch, when he, like some stumbling school child, without any hope for success, had tried to confess. He hadn't even been rejected. Soap had chosen to not listen, to not take him seriously.

 

Soap tore his t-shirt, forced him out of his pants, but when he tried to take the mask, Ghost fought back. So he let him keep it. Set his palm over Ghost's mouth and nose and held on until Ghost was undulating under him like a snake; let go and felt him gasp for air, palms against his chest. Those first, desperate breaths felt like his own. For the first time in days he felt like he could breathe without his chest clamping. Maybe he imagined it, but there was a tint of fear to Ghost's gaze after that. That felt good too. There was no stopping him now. He settled between Ghost's legs and enjoyed seeing Ghost's eyes widen, then fall shut in anticipated pain.

 

The pain wiped away most coherent thoughts. He'd never thought Soap would go that far. His insides were burning, but the one thing that stayed on his mind was, that somehow this was still better.

 

 

 

04 – Invulnerable

 

Soap watched the sunrise from the balcony, smoking. Once when he'd been young, just short of the legal age for alcohol, a friend had gotten him into a party. It was the first time he'd been drunk, and he'd probably never been as drunk again, not even after said friend's funeral. He'd expected to wake up not remembering, but the morning after he'd been in some sort of paralyzed panic over the things he'd done and said, not believing he'd done them but remembering them with merciless detial. Like some demon had possessed his body, except he could feel the glee with which he'd tripped the girl he liked and laughed at her face down in the dirt. He'd found himself smiling over the memory, despite the burning regret. He'd always been a little careful with the drink since then.

Today was the second time he felt that way. His fingers remembered Ghost's skin, hot and unexpectedly soft, and he curled them into fists where they hung over the balcony railing. The sheets had been stained with blood. The memory made him shudder, and yet he smiled.

It was done.

He couldn't ask Ghost what he thought about it. After they'd finished, Ghost had simply moved his head to the other end of the bed and turned his back on him. And fallen asleep, or so Soap thought. Soap had eventually gotten up and gone to his own room. He slept a little, but woke up early. Felt like his mind was sliding sideways and he needed some fresh air.

 

Ghost lay flat on his back and stared up into the ceiling. He'd missed breakfast, and morning practice. The door was locked, but not for Soap's sake. The mask hung from the lamp on the desk. He'd washed the blood and other fluids out of it, and hung it to dry. He rolled over and looked at it.

It was like looking at his own face in the mirror.

Some military psychologist had told him that masks and war paint could be used to dehumanize. One put a hood over a prisoner's head to dehumanize him, so you could treat him like an object; an enemy. One put masks on oneself to dehumanize oneself. To become the monster that could sacrifice civilians or gun down sleeping enemies. To feel in control in the chaos, because a human was a vulnerable thing, but a mask was a symbol, and symbols were immortal, invulnerable.

Was that what Soap needed? Was that why he'd come to Ghost in the first place? A faceless enemy to defeat, to regain control in the chaos. A symbol to carry his pain for him.

 

At breakfast, Roach kept asking Soap about Ghost getting hurt, and he kept answering in single-word sentences. His mind was elsehwere. The entire night, Soap realized, Ghost had pretty much only said one thing. “Get out.” So strictly speaking he hadn't said “no”.

And he'd liked it, in the end, hadn't he? All this time, this was what Ghost had wanted from him, right? He'd only obliged. Whatever Ghost may say about it, then and there, when he'd drawn blood, Ghost's body had pushed and pulled, but he was quite sure it had finished on pulling.

And since he remembered every burning moment, he knew Ghost had come.

 

Ghost got up, stretched some mobility into his aching body, tied his boots, and put on the mask.

 

They met in the corridor. Soap had never thought about it before, but Ghost usually moved very softly. Smoothly. A lifetime of practice had made his steps rather quiet even when walking normally. Seeing him move now, stiffly and in pain, was like a punch in the guts. He bit his lip, not sure if the feeling rushing over him aimed at making him laugh or cry.

Ghost walked up to them. “Roach.” And gave Soap a nod. Like usual.

“You alright?” Roach asked, who had been studying Ghost's limping with a horrified look on his face.

“Nothing I haven't gotten back from before.”

“Did you see them? We should get them back. A knife in an alley and bam!” Roach said, half joking.

Ghost shook his head. “They wore masks. Didn't recognize their moves or their voices.”

“Masks? Someone said it was some drunk jerks, but that sounds like they had a plan. What do you think, Captain? Cap?” Roach elbowed him slightly. “Oy.”

“Think it was more like scarves, improvised stuff,” Soap heard himself say.

“Yeah,” Ghost nodded. “Said they wanted to see my face.”

“I want to see your face,” Roach said. “But I'd also like to keep my balls. You got them back though, right? Or the Captain did?”

“Don't worry,” Ghost said, giving Roach a play punch in the shoulder. “When I find out who they were, I'll make sure they get theirs.”

Roach smiled awkwardly. Ghost left, according to himself to find some food.

“They got to him,” Roach said with honest concern. “Captain. When did you ever hear Ghost trying to be cheerful? Trying to cheer me up? Man, those guys...”

“He'll be okay,” Soap said.

Ghost, shaken up. That had never happened before. They'd even lost guys in the field, in terrible ways, and it had had less impact than this. Should he feel proud?

 

When night fell, Soap went to his own room, expecting to lie awake all night, but his head barely hit the pillow before he was asleep, and slept like the dead.

 

Maybe this could be salvaged, Soap thought. He'd made a mistake. He'd let it go out of hand. Nevermind that he couldn't quite look at Ghost the same. Nevermind that he spent an hour watching Ghost at target practice, wondering how his body would squirm if he pressed the freshly hot gun muzzle to the inside of his thigh. It would pass. Ghost seemed over it. Strangely over it.

He lurched around Ghost's door as night fell, but went to his own room in the end. Having these thoughts was better than being afraid all the time. Going just a little crazy to stay sane, that was a decent trade. But he had to stay in control. So he lay down in his own bed and closed his eyes, and fell asleep. In his dreams, the man in the room leaned over him and said “You don't mind if I use your mouth, do you? You'll soon be dead anyway,” with a wicked, inhuman grin on his featureless face, and Soap woke up flailing, heart beating. He tried to summon the feeling he'd had two nights ago, tried to imagine the heat of Ghost's body beneath him, the groans of pain, the fear in his eyes. But he was sweating and his body cramping, and then he was up and by Ghost's door again.

There was no way that Ghost would let him in. He must be insane to be back here. If he was going to get inside, he had to be decisive about it. He knocked, and planted his feet against the cold floor, and when the door cracked ever so slightly he charged it open, slammed it shut behind him and locked it. Ghost had stumbled a few steps backwards, and now stood up straight slowly, like it hurt.

Someone else might have said, “what do you want, McTavish,” or “get the fuck out, McTavish”, but Ghost just watched him, ready for fight or flight. They were about the same size, Ghost slightly taller, but Soap was stronger and slightly heavier, Ghost was faster and always had tricks up his sleeve. Soap had to get closer, to make sure he got a good grip, because even if Ghost was injured, Soap had seen what happened to enemies that underestimated him.

 

“You don't mind if I see your eyes, do you?” Soap said.

Ghost didn't move. This wasn't Soap. It wasn't his Captain and fellow soldier, it was the wounded animal he'd brought back. Yet the voice in the back of his head whispered “what are you fighting for”, wanted him to get on his knees and give the animal what it wanted, forget about everything else.

Soap moved closer, feigning a relaxed walk. “I could never identify someone from their eyes alone. And I won't, y'know. I'd never. Tell anyone. Do anything with it.”

He believed that, more than he probably should.

“So it wouldn't matter. I'm your Captain anyway, I look out for you.” Soap stopped just in front of him and reached out for his shades. Looking so much like the normal Soap that Ghost let down his guard.

Soap shoved him hard into the desk, kicked his shin out from under him, spun him around and slammed down his head. Ghost lost his shades, got the desk lamp light right into his eyes and had to close them. The blow made him a little dizzy.

“I know you want it,” Soap said, surprisingly gently. And there he was, the real Soap, somewhere beneath the animal. The good guy. The guy who expected people to give him what he asked for, simply because he was a nice guy. “I took care of you too didn't I. Just go with it.”

If they were really doing this...

 

Finally Ghost said something.

“What?” Soap said.

“Top right drawer,” Ghost repeated.

Holding Ghost's head pressed against the desk, pinning him in place with his weight, Soap shifted over and opened the drawer. He couldn't see into it. His hand went in and found a small, round bottle. Surprised, he picked it out and read the discreet label.

“How the hell did you get this out here...”

Ghost's lip had split back open and left some blood on the desk, through the mask. He could hear Ghost's grin in his voice. “It fits really well in the grenade pocket.”

 

In the darkness, alone after Soap left, Ghost mentally catalogued his injuries. Split lip. Arm. Chest. Hip. He paused. Ass. Soap went too hard too fast, like a dying man grasping for air. But it seemed he slept alright again, and that indicated progress. Could Ghost handle this? Ride out the wave? Go back to business as usual the day the wave ended? He could always ask to be assigned elsewhere. He had a record of moving on. But that was partly why he didn't want to; he hadn't settled into a team like this ever since...

Some injuries left scars, Ghost thought, prodding his split lip with his tongue, and some changed your life. His fingertips ran subconsciously over the knot of skin below his right collar bone, near the shoulder joint.

 

 

 

Interlude – The Man with the Mask

 

The sun was blasting them with heat, and they were huddled up behind the humvee pretending it gave them some shade. Brick tried to offer them cigarettes, but nobody had enough energy to answer him. Ghost sat further down by the front wheel, rifle across his lap, the mask crammed down the pocket of the vest. Sweat had striped his dusty face. Jackie wanted to know what they were doing out here in the open. Brick told him to shut up and wait. They were meeting another team to hand over intel, the spot was chosen because it was considered safe.

Next thing Ghost was face down in the dirt, flames licking his back, sand and stone raining down on him. To the right he saw someone's severed arm fly by while his ears rung with soundless overload. He crawled back to the damaged vehicle. The other guys had been by the back, and there wasn't much left of the back of the humvee. Something spilled out from behind a side panel thrown to the side, something a disgusting shade of red and pink. Jackie's helmet lay abandoned near a dry bush. The ground was blasted black and red.

Silence fell.

Help would come. The rendevouz point was known, a team was already on the way. Hopefully not ambushed. Ghost held on to the rifle, scanned the rock formations and hills, and waited. Eventually, he didn't know how long had passed, he stuck up his head briefly to look around. A smattering of shots hit the humvee, from somewhere further away, near some rock formation to the southeast. He sat down again.

They would flank him. Or throw grenades, or just keep shooting until a stray bullet picked him up. He despaired. No one was coming for him, the other team was probably already dead. He turned his head to the right and saw the mask flung over a stone. It held sentimental value, was perhaps his only possession worth anything to him beyond the usefulness of his equipment. Fuck it. If he was going to die, he wanted to do so with his face on. He threw himself out, grabbed the mask, and crawled back to the protection of the tire. They kept laying down covering fire for a while, then it stopped.

They were coming. Ghost wiped some sweat off his face, pulled on the mask, found footing. Lead with the rifle, scanned the hills beyond the humvee. Turned the corner, straight into the face of a guy. His body had fired before he'd finished the thought. Another enemy further away spun on his heels, clumsily, aiming wide. Ghost fired again, a quick burst, and the enemy went down. A bullet whisked by his right ear. He lay flat and saw the feet of someone coming closer. Waited patiently until the guy was close enough and shot him in the foot, then his shoulder jerked back with a sharp pain and the sound of a shot. He spotted a gleaming barrel at the back of the humvee; a guy lying down shooting under the car, like him. Ghost rolled over, dropping the rifle and pulling his sidearm with the left hand, and shot him right in the face. The guy whose foot he'd shot had crawled away somewhere. He sat back up, holding his shoulder together as best he could. His vest had absorbed some velocity, these guys had crappy guns, the bullet was still in his flesh. The last guy never came.

After that it felt like an eternity passed. No sign of additional hostiles, but Ghost wasn't poking his head out again. He concentrated on breathing and watched himself slowly bleed out. Eventually the other team arrived and got him out. The enemy had apparently decided he wasn't worth the risk.

He'd been on a lot of missions, lost a lot of guys in the field. Even had to kill people he thought he could trust. But this time, he had trouble returning, and he found people had trouble with him too. Maybe it was the mask. He couldn't go into combat without it, couldn't even really live without it. Whenever he didn't wear it, he felt like someone was aiming a gun at his head, from behind that corner, or the sniper spot on the hill, or through the café window. And in some sense he always expected to lose his team members sooner or later anyway, to death or to civilian life. No point in getting to know them. He was already trained for scouting and spotting, moving alone, so he worked alongside various teams, never staying, never settling, never getting close to anyone.

Eventually he ended up with one Captain John McTavish.

 

 

 

05 – Third Party Diplomacy

 

“Stick with me. Rememeber your right flank.” Soap gave Roach's shoulder a pat to signal him to move forward. They turned the corner, he picked off the target on the left and Roach took two up front. Like two limbs on the same body they split apart with perfect coordination so Soap could see further into the left side room while Roach covered his back, and he picked off another target waiting in the corner. Then forward again, briefly, before Soap saw a movement in the corner of his eye.

“Down!”

Roach dropped, without hesitating, and Soap shot the next target on Roach's right side. He heard Roach fire, and turned back to see another target, up ahead to the left, taken down.

The course was over. They folded up the visors and unloaded the guns.

“I said...”

“Right flank, I know, boss,” Roach said, dissapointed.

“Don't call me boss,” Soap said reflexively. Roach did well these days. Had gelled well with the team. And Soap was pretty sure he called him boss just to screw with him.

Soap felt more or less fully recovered now, physically. Mentally, he wasn't sure. Most of the time he was stable, he had nightmares from time to time, but Ghost said the nightmares were a sign his brain was trying to deal with it and move on. They would stop, eventually. But there was something fragile about this balance act he was performing. His mind slipped so easily. Whenever Ghost wasn't around, he looked for him. Whenever he was around, he was distracted, pushing away images, urges. Maybe that would stop eventually too, but he couldn't quite go into the field like this. So far he'd put it off saying he was waiting for Ghost to recover. His superiors let him be, partly because of what had happened, but mostly because they had the luxury of not desperately needing something done right now. He couldn't count on that lasting much longer, it never did.

“He looks pretty good,” Roach said.

“Hm?” Soap looked around.

Roach pointed to Ghost, who stood further away talking to two other soldiers. He looked normal, and his movements were back to being fluid and controlled, and when one of the guys said something, he dropped down to a squat without a heartbeat's hesitation and pointed. Looked like he was giving pointers about visibility, the way he was gesturing and marking vision ranges and heights.

“He'll be fit for action soon,” Roach said. “It's about time, ey Captain? We've been sitting on our asses for way too long.”

“We should give him some more time,” Soap said. “He'd never admit that he's not ready.”

Roach looked at him questioningly but didn't say anything.

 

Between the showers and lunch, Soap pinned Ghost to the wall in a toilet stall. Not to do anything in particular, just to exercise his command. He let Ghost go when some other guys came. Something was different now, though. Ghost was recovering fast. It wouldn't be long before he couldn't hold him down, even when ambushing him like that. He came out of the bathrooms feeling less in control than when he went in.

 

“You set it up.”

Soap looked up from the papers, setting the pen aside. Roach was standing firmly in his room, a determined look in his eyes. “What?”

“Sir,” Roach said, as an afterthought, and started over. “You set Ghost up.”

“Set him up for what,” Soap said, but regretted it immediately. He should have just told Roach to get lost.

“You told those guys to beat him up so he couldn't go on the mission. Sir.”

Soap stood up, loomed with his full size over the shorter, lighter man. It had to be to Roach's credit that he held his ground, didn't blink. Each of those 'sir's stung him. Implying that Roach still respected his command. He wanted to tell him it wasn't true, but he'd hesitated too long. Roach would know he was lying. He sighed and sat down.

“I have to tell him,” Roach said. When Soap turned around to look at him, Roach looked terrified.

“Roach...”

“If he finds out I knew and didn't tell him, he'll kill me. This is Ghost. He really will.”

“Then what do you think he'll do to me?”

“Nothing,” Roach said immediately. “He'd never do anything to you, you know. Sir.”

Roach couldn't possibly know. That, or anything else.

“If you don't want me to say anything, at least explain why you did it,” Roach said.

Soap sighed again. “I didn't want him to go on that mission,” he said.

Roach looked surprised. “Why? It wasn't dangerous, and... Sir, it's not that you're, um, that is to say, were you jealous? That he was going with me?” Roach looked like he regretted saying it immediately, he looked away and made a face.

That was so ridiculous, Soap wanted to laugh. Knowing he couldn't tell Roach the truth, he settled on saying, “Yes, of course. Jealous.” With his most ironic tone.

Roach was still standing there, looking a little lost and conflicted.

“Look, that stuff... the torture got to me a bit more than I might have thought,” Soap said, getting up and putting a reassuring hand on Roach's shoulder. “I regretted it the moment I saw the damage.” Which was true. “It'll never happen again. I've got my head on straight now.” Which was not true. “So please, don't tell him anything. He'll go after the guys, and we'll be left with three traceless disappearences on our conscience.”

“Your conscience,” Roach said reproachingly. “Alright,” he said then. “I don't know what's up with you lately, Captain. You know you could still see a councellor...”

“I'm fine,” Soap assured him. “It will never happen again, I swear.”

Roach was finally pacified, and left. Soap sank down on his chair again. He tasted acid in his mouth, a vague feeling of wanting to throw up. Face to face with how far he'd gone to keep Ghost in base, and by extension starting to understand how far he'd gone to feel better, he wondered how much was too much. How far could he go before he was too broken to function? He couldn't do this to the men, to the team. He had to get a grip. He had to be okay now, this had to be over.

He'd told himself Ghost had wanted it. Be that as it may, he hadn't asked for it. What did that make Soap?

 

Night fell, and Soap locked the door to Ghost's room and tried to go to sleep in his bed. Ghost was already solidly asleep. It had more or less become a habit now, that Ghost went to bed, and Soap came in late with the key he'd stolen, and if he wanted something he woke him up. Soap had gone to his own room first, but it didn't even really feel like his bed anymore. The habit had been too strong, and there he was. He wasn't going to do anything, he told himself, just sleep, but instead he tossed and turned trying to get his thoughts in order.

“McTavish,” Ghost groaned.

“Sorry.”

Ghost rolled over and squinted at him. “Nightmares?”

“No.”

“Then at least lie still, if you're gonna lie awake.”

“Sorry,” Soap said again.

Ghost tured back to the wall.

“Ghost?”

Ghost annoyedly threw off the cover and glared at him, before rubbing his face. “I'm fucking tired, what do you want?”

Soap tugged at the cover. “Sleep this way.” Ghost always slept with his back turned, but he didn't want Ghost's back. He didn't even want him naked. He just wanted to hear him breathing.

Ghost pulled the cover back. “Fuck me or let me sleep.” And he turned his back again.

Soap was stunned for a moment. Ghost had never been that coarse before, or so dismissive. He kicked him, but got no response, so he closed his eyes and tried to hold still.

 

He woke up gasping for air, swatting the side of the bed trying to punch an invisible enemy. No. No, no, no. Ghost was right there next to him, it should be safe. That hated, wretched presence shouldn't get in this room. No no no. He couldn't do this. It was cracking, he was really breaking, he'd thought he was recovering but he'd never be okay. He covered his face with his hands.

“Oy.”

“I'm fine,” he said, more out of habit.

“Right as rain,” Ghost teased him.

“I'm... I thought I was improving. This isn't supposed to happen. Not here, not...” with you.

“You're a real crybaby, mate.” Ghost pulled him back down, put an arm over his neck and shoulders. “Fine, I'll sleep this way. Drama queen.”

Soap kicked him again.

 

Morning came. He'd slept, but he didn't feel rested.

 

Ghost kept an eye on Soap all day. Something had thrown him off. Like Soap had said, Ghost had seen the improvements. The wounded animal showed up less, he'd recently slept an entire night without interruption from nightmares. He could keep a normal surface for the rest of the base. Some sadistic streak came over him whenever he got horny, but far as Ghost knew that could have been there before. That stuff hadn't appealed to him earlier, it didn't really now either, but he was glad it was that way. It was so much easier to remember the line, when Soap was slamming him into walls and smirking about making him bleed. If he hadn't entirely misread the situation last night, Soap had wanted to cuddle. If they got all cozy and tender, they'd muddle the line. He'd let his guard down. He couldn't let that happen. This was for Soap's benefit, not his own. When this was over and Soap was better, he had to be able to deal with that.

He had a vague suspicion of what it could be that was bothering Soap, but it felt like flattering himself. He knew how to test it though.

In the afternoon he brought Soap to target practice. Roach came along unasked. Ghost waited for the right moment, made Soap pick up a pump shotgun, then casually turned to him.

“Throw me that will ya.”

Soap threw it over. Ghost caught it in his right hand, pumped it one-handed, switched it over, aimed and fired. Perfect. When he glanced back, Soap was staring at him.

“Hey, that was nice, you're back!” Roach said cheerfully, then turned and gave Soap a very pointed glare. “But better be careful, we wouldn't want you to get hurt again.”

Soap flinched, then covered it up by punching Roach in the arm.

What?

“The Captain said you needed more time but you don't, do you?” Roach went on.

Truth be told, Ghost had been fine for a while now. “Maybe it's the Captain that needs more time,” he told the target, slipped his ear protection back in place, and fired again.

 

Soap wanted to punch him. But he'd just punch back now, right? It wouldn't accomplish anything. And with Roach's watching eyes, he couldn't pull any more crazy shit. The game was over.

He excused himself and left.

 

“I guess he does need a bit more time,” Roach said. “I'm, uh, I know he hasn't been quite right since he came back. Done some stuff that isn't like him.”

It was almost unthinkable that Soap would have let anything slip to Roach, but perhaps the kid had caught on to something on his own. He was pretty sharp, when he wanted to. Ghost studied Roach's face and decided he didn't mind the guy knowing, even if it was a bit weird to imagine other people being aware what he had done to him at night. But Roach was alright.

“Thought he was getting better,” Ghost said. “Now I don't know. Can't keep on like this forever.”

“I don't think he knows what to do,” Roach said carefully. “I mean, I don't think he meant any harm.”

“I'm sure he thinks he did,” Ghost said, shrugging.

“You're not... mad at him are you?”

“I should be.” Ghost leaned against the booth. “He's all too happy to use me to get better, but he won't talk about it. I thought it'd get him back on his feet but now I don't know. He's back to not sleeping, even in my room.”

Then saw Roach's wide-eyed stare. Oops. He'd jumped to conclusions. The kid hadn't known at all. Must have been talking about something else. Nothing to do now. Just play the cards.

“Maybe we should start calling you fish, instead of roach,” Ghost said, when nothing was said.

Roach shut his mouth. Then opened it again. “Use you?” he managed to push out.

Ghost shrugged. “Thought you knew.”

“No. No I...” Roach fidgeted nervously.

“Then what were you talking about, not getting me hurt again?”

Several cogwheels at once seemed to explode in Roach's head. “Nothing,” he stammered.

Ghost decided to leave it. “Don't tell anyone,” he said. “I shouldn't need to say that.”

“No, no, of course.” Roach was recovering well. “I knew the Captain didn't sleep in his room a lot, I guess he was in yours?”

“He usually is,” Ghost said, because there was no point in playing games.

“Then...” Roach looked at him hopefully. “He's seen your face? And I mean, I can keep a secret, I won't ever tell anyone anything. So if I saw your face too, I'd sure never...”

This again? Ghost was too annoyed to laugh. “He hasn't seen my face. Neither will you. Ever.”

Roach looked like he tought Ghost was lying.

“We're not dating, this isn't high school,” Ghost said. “It's just an arrangement.”

“But you like him, don't you?” Roach blurted out, then took half a step backwards and put his hands up, as if Ghost would hit him. “Ehh, I mean... not that I think that you're... it's just that, I know that you like him, um, not like that but...”

“I am,” Ghost said matter-of-factly. Roach being so nervous made him uncomfortable. Then, “I do,” because he'd never told anyone, and Roach was too scared of him to ever repeat it. His voice sounded casual enough, but he was glad Roach couldn't see his eyes. “This isn't about that. MacTavish isn't. He just needed something to clear his head.”

“Right, okay.” Roach processed. Something looking dangerousely close to compassion came into his eyes. Ghost was done with this conversation.

“Go somewhere else, Roach.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roach began to take off, then turned back. “Is the Captain... okay?”

“He will be.”

“Don't be too harsh on him. Whatever they did to him really turned him around. He's not making the best choices. I guess what I mean is, don't wait for him to talk about whatever it is you think he should, I think he just can't. It's not personal, or anything.” He hesitated.

Ghost nodded, okay. Roach looked like he wanted to say something more, but left.

Leaned against the booth, watching the shadows grow longer, Ghost pondered that. Maybe he had made a mistake. He'd thought he was helping Soap, but maybe he'd just taken advantage of the situation. He'd tried so hard to not muddle the line, but maybe he'd already crossed it. What they'd been doing so far had kept Soap above the surface, or so he liked to think, but Soap was still drowning. It was only a temporary solution. Was there some other way? Should he just back out?

'It's not personal, or anything.' Maybe Ghost had made it personal. How much more could he get involved, without losing sight of the line completely?

 

 

 

06 – Compromising

 

Soap sat on Ghost's bed. He'd never been in the room without Ghost before. He kept scratching this spot on his left arm, although it didn't itch. Eventually he got up and looked through the room. The desk drawers were mostly empty, just some pens and papers. The clothes chest too, because most of the few civilian clothes Ghost owned were thrown in a pile on the chair. There was a box under the bed with a costum made knife and some other military peripherals. Two pairs of similar sunglasses lay on parade on the desk. An extra pair of boots was shoved in furthest under the bed.

No photos, no trinkets or toys. No sign of family or friends. No jewelry. The clothes were very generic. Not even a slip of paper with a phone number or some doodles or anything with Ghost's handwriting. Like this room could belong to anyone, or no one. To a ghost.

He felt like he was suffocating.

 

Ghost returned to his room, and the door opened under his touch. Someone had left it open. The only person with a key was Soap. He went inside and looked around. Soap had gone through his things. One desk drawer wasn't properly closed, the box under his bed was out of place. Why? Soap had had access to his room for over a week. Why now?

He got out of his clothes and showered. His bathroom had a scratched, uneven mirror. Good enough to help with shaving, but it distorted his face quite a bit. He looked into his own eyes. Put the mask on and returned, tried to take in the full impression of the black cloth and the printed bones.

An enemy to fight, control to regain. A symbol.

Maybe he was the crazy one.

 

Soap wandered his room back and forth. He couldn't sleep, but he couldn't go over to Ghost's room either. It was like flicking a switch. He'd been completely absorbed in the... game? What was it. Relationship? What was his relationship to Ghost anyway? He shook his head. Now, from the outside, what he'd done was insane. Completely insane. He had pride; principles. He'd never have done this to an enemy, much less a friend. He considered Ghost his friend, even if Ghost had made clear it wasn't quite so simple from his side.

Dear lord. He felt bad about Ghost's body, but what about his heart? It was strange to think that way. He'd never really considered that Ghost even had a heart.

 

Apparently Soap wasn't coming. He was probably freaking the fuck out. Ghost got out of bed, stepped into his boots and drifted over to Soap's room, a mess of questions and ideas simmering beneath the surface. If he was the kind of man to question himself, he'd be tearing his hair, but instead he was going to get shit done. He lifted a hand to knock but changed his mind. Knocking wasn't really part of their dynamic anymore. Instead he opened the door and went in. Soap was stopped mid-pace.

 

A crash of emotions washed over Soap. A mix of guilt and want. Ghost needed to get out of the room, right now, before he...

Ghost's steps were without hesitation, decisive, a man on a mission. He was pushed back, the bed hit the back of his shins and he fell into it. Ghost was on top of him immediately, predatory, and for some reason he had a rope in his pocket, skillfully wrapped it around Soap's right wrist and pushing and pulling and before Soap managed to get a proper defense up, his arm was tied to the bed frame. His lungs cramped. He fought and kicked, but Ghost was bigger, had more reach and, thanks to the rope, an unbeatable advantage.

Ghost's sweater was the same green color as the camo of those men that had kept him captive, and the struggle just increased the feeling of suffocating, and as Soap panicked his defense got uncoordinated and Ghost easily kept him in place. Suddenly he was shouting uncontrollably. “Get off of me!” over and over again, but Ghost just held on, calm and unwavering, until he ran out of air.

Then Ghost pulled off his pants, strong hands steering his body this way and that. Soap had to let him, had to take some time to regain the energy he'd wasted on shouting. When he opened his mouth to protest, Ghost grabbed his face and looked straight into his eyes.

“Shut up or I'm going to hurt you.”

He meant it. Soap twisted. Past and present melted together, he couldn't tell Ghost's menacing presence apart from the grinning faces of the torturer's assistants. This wasn't really happening, he told himself, it was a dream. Ghost wouldn't. But he thought of how leisurely Ghost went ahead with interrogations, how calmly he approached the subject of torture, he knew from the files Ghost had experience. Wasn't afrad of violence. Wasn't hampered by concern.

This was vengeance, he realized. Ghost had recovered, and now he was getting back at him. And he deserved it.

 

Soap gave up. Ghost felt it, his body went still, his eyes lost shine. This stupid guy.

He tossed Soap's boots to the floor and pulled off his underwear, and Soap didn't make a move to resist. He flipped Soap over, resisted the urge to run his hands down Soap's back and kiss the scar on Soap's hip from a machete long ago, and kept his touch rough and emotionless. Handled his body like a slab of meat. For autenticity he shouldn't, but he used the lube anyway, didn't want to hurt Soap too bad. Soap was still not doing anything, he had to provoke him somehow.

“I knew you'd like this better,” Ghost said. “You were made to have your ass in the air. You look good like this. I knew you would.”

 

Soap fought to hold still. His body was protesting the treatment, and he could barely breathe. Partly because this position made his trapped arm press the air out of his lungs, partly because panic was lurking just beneath the surface. He couldn't let it loose. He'd explode. He'd do something stupid and pathetic, and still not get free. Ghost's words were like ice down his spine, making him squirm, but he clenched his jaw and held still. He would not give Ghost the satisfaction.

But hell, the man knew what he was doing. Bursts of pleasure ripped through the paralyzing fear from time to time. “I should have done this long ago,” Ghost said. “Didn't expect you to be so easy, Captain. Didn't think you were the type. But I should have seen it. You're asking for it. Those guys just did what you wanted them to do, didn't they? It's a shame I didn't do it first. Maybe we should invite some of the other guys in here, and have a party. Nothing you haven't done before. You'll have a good time. Maybe Roach, he looks at you like you're the star, I bet he'd like to come in your ass. I bet he'd look at you different after that. More like you deserve.”

Ghost pushed in quickly, felt like he was tearing him apart. He was snatched back to the memory of the cold cell floor, his flailing arms held down, the stink of sweat and piss and a pair of boots in front of his eyes while the guys cackled like hyenas.

“Pretty tight for being used,” Ghost whispered in his ear. “Good second hand value. Let's have a look at you.” He turned him over. Soap gasped for air, finally better able to breathe.

 

He was crying. Ghost paused, thrown off for a second. It wasn't hard to play the monster, he did it every day, every time he held a gun, but apparently there was still a man left behind the mask. He'd never thought he'd see MacTavish cry; he'd never thought he'd feel so strongly about it. But he couldn't stop now. He had to follow through, and either way, he was turned on and fired up beyond the ability to stop.

He leaned forward and took Soap's jaw in his hand. “You don't mind if I use your mouth, do you? You don't seem to need it for anything.”

For some reason that hit the spot. A light lit up in Soap's eyes, gave him a millisecond's warning, but the punch still landed. Soap cried out, managed to get a leg up between them, foot against Ghost's chest, and pushed him backwards. He hit his back on the corner of Soap's desk and tumbled out of the bed. Soap tried to kick him again, didn't reach, and instead tried to work his hand loose.

He'd tied that knot well. Ghost afforded a moment to catch his breath, then climbed on top of him again, fought,properly this time. The bed creaked desperately, like it was going to give in and spill them both on the floor. Soap kept shouting profanities and bit his arm. Eventually Ghost managed to pin down his other hand.

“Alrght, alright,” he said.

“Fuck you!” Soap shouted.

Ghost let go, holding up his hands as a sign of peace.

 

Soap punched him one more time for good measure, and while he was at it, tried to kick him in the crotch but was elegantly dodged.

“Soap. Soap. MacTavish.”

“What,” Soap gasped, tired from the fight.

“We're done.”

“Fuck you.”

“You said that.”

“Untie me.” He tried to get his hand free again but that damned knot was for some reason impossible. When Ghost didn't answer he turned his head to look. Ghost was staring at his, well, his dick probably. His body made a hum in response, remembering the good things Ghost had done to it before.

Ghost met his eyes. “If you say stop,” he said slowly, voice dark and raspy, “I'll leave. I swear. Or I could stay and,” he breathed heavily and didn't finish.

 

Soap had finally fought back, and there was a new confidence in him, like he was back to focusing on what should be done, not thinking so much. Maybe it had worked. Maybe this was good old Soap. That remained to be seen. So Ghost should leave now. His work here was done. Anything more would be selfish, would be pushing it.

Ghost slid in between Soap's legs, not breaking eye contact, waiting for the word. It never came.

 

When Ghost entered him again the world flickered, but he stayed in the present. When they came together the world was washed away. When Ghost lazily ran his hands over Soap's body afterwards, softly and intimately like they just belonged there, the world clicked back into place. As it should be.

 

“Riley,” Soap said drowsily.

Who? Ghost thought. Oh right, him. “What?”

“Lie here.” Soap patted the bed next to him.

 

Ghost hesitated for a good long while. Soap didn't know what he needed to think about so much. Why go back to his room when he could sleep here? Simple.

“I know you don't... care about me, like I do,” Ghost said slowly.

“I care about you,” Soap said. Bleh, it came out sounding cheesy as hell. “Don't be like that,” he added to cover it up. “Sleep here.”

“Not tonight.”

The bed creaked as Ghost got up and left.

Soap ran a hand over his hair and wondered if he was asking too much, if it was Ghost's turn to freak out.

 

 

 

07 – The Line

 

“You look good, Captain.” Roach sat down at their table. Ghost had been silent all morning, keeping distance between them and refusing to look at him, so Roach ended up sitting between them.

“I am good,” Soap said. He was. Like stepping into clean highland air after a week in exhaust fumes and dust. “And I was good at traget practice this morning. Where were you?”

Roach threw a glance at Ghost but decided against commenting. “I finally got through and got to talk to my sis,” he said. “It's alright ey?”

“Sure,” Soap said. It was easy to forget some of them still had connections off-base. “Why don't you go down get some shooting done now, we have a meeting.” He swept the last of his coffee. “Riley, you coming?”

Roach lifted an eyebrow. “Who's Riley?”

Ghost picked up his tray and left with Soap.

 

They barely made it inside Ghost's room. When Ghost closed the door, Soap pushed him up against it. Not like before, it wasn't a desperate, possessive attack, but rather a clumsy attempt at seduction, Ghost thought. Soap was out of practice. He pushed him away.

Soap looked like a hurt little boy.

“I gotta tell you something,” Ghost said.

 

“Not now,” Soap said, moving in again. Ghost was going to try to break this off, he knew it, didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to talk about it, because then he had to sort it out, and it made no sense.

“I may have... misunderstood what you and Roach were talking about before,” Ghost said, “and let slip, about us. Just that we're... involved? Nothing else, but well, the kid knows.”

Soap's brain stalled. “What?”

“He's not gonna tell anyone.”

“You told Roach?”

“Not exactly. Well, maybe. Whatever.”

Soap grabbed his arm. “It's not whatever!”

“Relax, I said he won't tell anyone.”

“He better not!”

“Hey, I'm not the one who started this mess.” Ghost threw up his hands. “And I don't care if people know.”

“So you're fine if they chant 'Ghost takes it up the ass' out there?”

For a moment he thought he'd get away with it. Then Ghost turned them around and he was the one pushed against the door. “Who takes it up the ass,” Ghost growled. He sounded angry, but his touch was gentle. Soap's breath hitched.

“Do you trust me?” Ghost asked. Apparently he'd noticed Soap twitching.

He didn't know how to answer that. Trust Ghost? Yes, absolutely, with his life, with anything. And no, not at all. He said the first thing, the last thing, he thought about.

“What color are your eyes?”

 

Ghost wondered how Soap kept finding the one thing to say or do that got to him. He smiled, in spite of himself. “You don't know?” He flicked the light switch and the room lit up.

 

Brown. Not green, as Soap had imagined. Light brown, with a tint of golden honey. Ghost pushed up his shirt and unbuttoned his pants. He did trust Ghost, and after what's been going on, his body trusted Ghost to get him off. And Ghost sure knew what he was doing.

Slowly, the man in the room was being overwritten.

 

Soap was half dozed off, as Ghost got ready to get out of bed. When he tried to stand up, Soap's hand pulled him back.

“I think my work here is done,” Ghost said.

“What,” Soap mumbled into the pillow.

“An enemy to defeat and control to regain,” Ghost said. He had no idea why, because Soap wouldn't understand what it meant. But that's what it was, his project may have veered off course but he had to...

“You can do that tomorrow.”

“Not me,” Ghost said, trying to hold on. “You.”

“I can do that tomorrow.”

Ghost gave up.

 

“Take your mask off.” Soap held on to him, refused to let him leave. Ghost hesitated again, he didn't know why. Soap had never asked about the mask, never mentioned it before. But he wanted to run his hand through Ghost's hair, that's why.

“I can't,” Ghost said.

“Can't?” He reached out and pulled at it. “You've worn it so much it's grown stuck?”

 

Pretty much, Ghost thought.

 

“Don't,” Ghost said, but let him pull the mask off. It was actually harder to take one off another person than Soap had expected. His hair was brown, short but a little longer than regular military crop. Soap ran his hand through it, slowly, and something very similar to pain flickered across Ghost's face, and his body tensed.

Soap tried to kiss him, but Ghost wouldn't let him. Instead he moved to get up again. Soap tried to pull him down a third time, but this time Ghost twisted his arm free.

“I'm sorry,” Soap said, “I won't try, stay here.”

Ghost lingered, sitting on the side of the bed. “There's a line,” he started, and it sounded like the start of a long monologue, and Soap was in too good a mood to listen to it.

“Riley,” he interrupted. “Tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“Is that your real name?”

Finally, Ghost laughed, his body relaxing. “One secret at a time.”

 

There was a line and he had to keep it. Ghost wanted Soap to sleep in his own room. Soap didn't want to. In the end, they compromised. Soap would come over when the nightmares woke him up. Usually they just slept. Sometimes, a little more. Over time, Soap came over less and less. Missions took over more of their time, the world was flailing, the time on base got shorter and mostly spent catching up on sleep. But even when they hadn't, for a long while, there would be moments when Soap's hand lingered on his shoulder just a moment too long, reminding them both.

He stopped trying to kiss Ghost, at least. For someone so curious about Ghost's life, he never asked why Ghost refused to kiss him. Maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe he didn't need to.

Ghost never told him about the line. He figured there was no rush, he'd do it later, at some point.

 

 

 

Epilogue – Unspoken

 

There would in time come a man named Makarov. A world on the brink. A dream of a better place, much different than most dreams. Price's capture and rescue. Mission upon mission, body stacked upon body. Only each other to lean on.

And then fate split them up. Soap hated splitting up, more than anything. He was used to the lives of his brothers, his closest family, hanging in the balance at every moment. Used to seeing bullets flying around their heads. Used to burying them. But then he was there, with them in the heat of the moment, barking orders and charging ahead. To split up meant to not know. To maybe never know.

 

Ghost considered himself already dead. It made risking his life easier. And he had come to terms with Soap being at risk constantly around the clock. But there was something about this time, this mission and this place in the world, that made him uneasy. The last moment they were alone, before the split, Ghost pulled off his mask and flung his arm around Soap's waist and kissed him, violently, like it was the last time, although it was the first. Soap was agitated and a little scruffy, Ghost sweaty and tired. But when he let go, Soap pulled him back for just a second more. A second that, at least for Ghost, said everything he couldn't say in words.

There were no prospects waiting for either of them. Nothing but here and now. Ghost was used to it, had lived most of his life that way and didn't wish it to be otherwise. In that one moment however, he saw a glimpse of a different life, one with a future, one where he wasn't a ghost. Walking away from Soap felt like walking away from that vision. But they had work to do.

 

Not long thereafter, he was running for his life, adrenaline pumping in his veins, blood rushing in his ears. Gunfire all around, each rumble of the mortars making his stomach turn. The other two were gone. Roach went down, came back up. Went down again. Ghost shouted at him to get up until his throat burned. Pulled him up and held him his up. Knew, somewhere deep down, that this was over. He'd been running long enough. End of the line. He'd survived a lot of things on that animal instict that kicked in, the beast inside with an unquenchable will to live. This last useless moment of his useless life, he finally felt the man want it too.

He looked over at Roach, dirt and blood smudging his vision and said, “Roach, if you get out of here and I don't, you have to say, you have to tell MacTavish...”

The arrival of the extraction team cut him off. Hope dared spark. They might make it. Perhaps they would be okay. Perhaps he'd get to see Soap again. General Shepherd was here to collect his sheep.

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't kill me ^^'
> 
> I know the mask thing is weird. I had an idea for it, and then changed my mind but it had become such a central concept that I couldn't write it out.
> 
> Both the manga and a soundtrack I found from a person recommending the manga, that I listened to while writing this, were lost last year when I moved computer, sadly.
> 
> This was written during a few very very hot summer days in 2015.


End file.
